The Bridge
by 90TheGeneral09
Summary: In the first hours of the Soviet offensive into West Germany, men of the 40th Air Assault Regiment Willi Sänger jump behind enemy lines, seizing a rural but vital bridge to deny its use to NATO. It must be held at all costs.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

 **A/N: This is set in a slight AU, in which the KGB espionage efforts were a complete success and there was no decisive first strike by NATO against Warsaw Pact airpower. The war thus begins with Warsaw Pact forces holding the initiative.**

* * *

No one spoke as the Tupolev Tu-134 made its takeoff run; every man in every seat was pushed back by the firm-yet-invisible hand of acceleration. The airliner was almost new, painted in the colours of Interflug, the state airline of the German Democratic Republic- commonly known to citizens of the NATO countries as East Germany. It was packed tight, every seat occupied as it raised its landing gear and climbed into the sky.

Normally, seating was actually fairly comfortable with reasonable leg-room, but the Tupolev's passengers today were loaded down with over 50 pounds of gear per man. Each passenger was sitting upright, wedged in between his own seat and the one ahead. The men were unable to relax anyway; there was too much happening. Hearts were racing in every man aboard the Tupolev airliner, from the Luftstreitkräfte der NVA pilots who'd trained just for this occasion, ready to 'borrow' the airliner from Interflug in a time of war, to the three full platoons of paratroopers they were carrying into action.

It was early March 13, 1986, several hours before dawn, and the Luftsturmregiment 40 Willi Sänger was going to war for the first time in history. Trained both as helicopter air assault infantry and as conventional paratroopers, the soldiers of the 40th were the finest in the entire National People's Army. Each man had enough training to be called not just an elite paratrooper, but an entry-level commando. Specifically trained to go where no other unit in the DDR's military could, and do things lesser men would not dare, the paratroopers of LStR 40 were the perfect choice for any manner of diversionary, sabotage, first-strike, or seize-and-hold actions.

Several rows back from the front, 22-year-old Hans Kerner sat as still and silent as the rest, keeping a tight hold on his MPi-AKS-74N assault rifle, hanging from its gray fabric sling around his neck. Occasionally, the brown-haired corporal would check his jump gear, in particular his RPG-7D, a special version of the standard Warsaw Pact anti-tank weapon that broke in two so paratroops could more easily jump with it. Hans was one of several men in the company entrusted with the unit's anti-tank weapons, and with all the tanks possessed by NATO every rocket was sure to be needed before long. Hans was seated close beside Wilhelm Forst, Dietrich Schäfer, Martin Kranz and Günther Vollmer, the four other paratroopers assigned to him in two two-man fire teams. When one of them caught his eye, he'd give them a nod, a smile or a wink, doing his best to appear at ease, even excited.

It was best not to advertise that he was scared. All of them were, nobody was going to fool anybody else; but the ones with rank had to try. They had to.

 **XX**

Ever since he had seen them on parade, back when he was just a little boy in the FDJ, the Free German Youth, Hans Kerner had wanted to be one of this elite group of soldiers. Their bright red berets were unique, immediately identifying them in an entire column of troops in dress uniform as the best in the business. They could run faster and farther, fight harder than anyone Hans had ever seen. They were the very image of physical fitness, and accepted only the best and toughest.

It had taken every ounce of Hans' strength, both mentally and physically, just to pass the initial entrance exams. They'd questioned everything about him, practically back to the day he was born, when Hans had first interviewed with two officers and a sergeant major for admission to initial entry training for LStR 40 Willi Sänger. Of all the questions, though, one had immediately hit Hans closest to home. In 1978, his father had fled to West Germany, leaving his family behind.

In the DDR, the Ministerium für Staatssicherheit (Ministry for State Security), commonly referred to as the Stasi, kept track of everyone who'd had any relatives or even close friends make a run for the West. Having any relative defect was bad enough, but to have your own father be the one was damning. Hans had a flawless record; excellent marks in school and in the Army. He was a dedicated socialist, a devout reader of Engels, Marx and Lenin, and was a fanatical runner and football player. Only that, combined with his mother's tireless dedication as a schoolteacher and SED member, was enough to convince the officers. Hans had told them everything, and spoke honestly of his shame and anger at his father's abandonment of both his family and his country.

Alex, on the other hand, had begun to become a political activist. Not long after Hans had made it through all the training and been admitted to the 40th, Alex had drifted into pro-democratic idealism. He'd been arrested at a mass protest against the government of Erich Honecker last fall, and Hans, who had been trying to use his own standing in the SED to cover for him, had exploded. After asking a personal favor of the Minister for Culture, Bruno Hempf, who had taken a liking to Hans when they'd spoken briefly at an official government visit to LStR 40's home base, Hans had gotten his brother sprung from jail and immediately laid into him as they drove home in Hans' Trabant.

"I've _had_ it!" Hans had yelled. He'd gestured with one hand, pointing at the beautiful black eye and generally battered look Alex had acquired. " _Look_ at yourself! How is it that you've messed _everything up_?!"

Not even pausing for breath, Hans vented years' worth of frustration, anger over having to always protect his twin brother from his own politics. "Now, I've always stayed out of your business, haven't ? I was hoping you'd _grow up_ , Alex, that you'd _mature_ a bit! But I get the feeling that's not happening, Alex. I got an 'interview' with a Stasi colonel today! He wanted to know as much about _me_ as he wanted to know about you! I'm under _direct investigation_! So now, you're messing with MY JOB! MY _LIFE_!"

The minute Hans did pause for breath, Alex was shooting back. The two of them had argued bitterly, but Hans put his foot down. They would drive one of two places before he'd even consider going home. One was a selection center for the Volksmarine, the People's Navy. When Alex immediately began to refuse, Hans calmly outlined the other- the Stasi holding cell Alex had only just been freed from.

"It's not me, Alex. I didn't decide on that option. That's what the Stasi told me themselves." He left his voice soften. "Alex, just join me in the military. Do a couple years in the Volksmarine and get the Stasi off our backs. It's not as bad as you think. You still have a way out of this. Take it."

That had decided it. The two of them had gradually calmed down, but there was a definite stiff, awkward manner about the twin Kerner brothers as they had parted when Alex had gone off to basic naval infantry training near Rostock. Hans had kept tabs on him, and to his surprise Alex had not deserted; he'd stayed and completed his training, getting assigned to the Koni-class frigate _Rostock_ as a signalman.

A join force of Soviet Navy and Volksmarine ships, troops and air units had assaulted the Baltic coast of West Germany yesterday, on March 12, 1986. The _Rostock_ , part of 1st Flotilla, was unquestionably helping provide naval gunfire support for the landing forces- as well as working with the rest of the fleet to ensure no interference with the invasion came by sea.

It was a safe enough assignment, signalman on a frigate amid a fleet of friendly warships, in a war going (so far) completely the DDR's way- but there were safer, too. As proud as Hans was to see his brother take on some responsibility and serve in the People's Navy in wartime, he secretly wished Hans had been given comfortable shore duty- like being in the galley or maintenance staff of the Naval Officers Academy "Karl Liebknecht". That way, Alex could serve out his time in a place where Hans would not have to worry about him at all. But the way things were, with Alex on the _Rostock_ , anything could happen. The ship could get hit- and Hans could do nothing, could not be there to help, if that happened.

It felt awful. Hans was resolved to see this through, and he was proud to be beginning the liberation of capitalist-occupied West Germany with the brave comrades in his unit. But part of him couldn't help it, couldn't help worrying about his brother. All he could do was hope for the best, wish his brother good luck- the same as Alex was doubtless doing for him.

 **XX**

Hans had been unable to sit still since he'd learned of the war's start a month ago. Training had intensified a thousand fold. Some units began practicing only air assault tactics and deployment, while others just did practice parachute jumps. This was it, and everyone knew it. When the Soviet Northern Fleet attacked that NATO convoy as it headed for Europe across the Atlantic, enforcing the blockade Soviet Premier Vladimir Soshkin had declared was in place- there was no mistaking what was happening. It was the ultimate test, the day for which every good comrade in the armed forces of the Warsaw Pact had prepared. World War III.

The Tupolev's lit interior was silent, save for the steady hum of the jet engines. The enlisted men, the noncoms, the handful of officers- nobody had much to say.

It was brilliant, truly, how well the socialist nations of Europe had come together when this war began in February. The Romanians, Polish, Bulgarians, Hungarians, Soviets, East Germans- every division and every brigade was being mobilized. Workers turned out for extra shifts at factories essential to the war effort. The outcry was clear- the capitalist dictators and warmongers have oppressed the working man long enough!

With the landings on the West German Baltic coast, huge numbers of NATO troops once committed to squaring off at the inner German border now were being thrown north to hold the line. The fighting was hard, but all the reports said that East German and Soviet forces were pushing inland, making progress, and doing so with minimal casualties. Now, with NATO distracted by a first strike where it had been least expected, the one they had been anticipating had come.

 _I wonder when they'll wake up_ , Hans thought, knowing that by now they must surely have crossed over into West German airspace. Flights between the DDR and BRD were so rare they were practically nonexistent, and surely several airliners, all owned by the East German state, flying straight over the border into West Germany would get somebody's attention.

Had they used military aircraft, the Americans and their West German lackies would probably have worked up the nerve to open fire by now. But so far, their luck had held. The "harmless civilian" look of even an East German airliner was doing its job.

Then the lights shut off.

The power came on, just for the lights lining the center aisle, after a moment. Near an exit door just aft of the cockpit, Hauptmann Feiertag, the company commander, stood up and faced the rows of tense, silent paratroopers.

"Stand up!" Feiertag called.

As one, the paratroopers of Company A stood, needing only a few moments to move out into the center aisle and line up.

"Check equipment!"

At that command, each and every man standing in the center aisle began running his hands over his own gear, then checking the parachute and reserve parachute of the man in front of him. In moments, calls began to ring out, running from the very back of the line to the front.

"Ninety! All is good, Herr Hauptmann!"

"Eighty-nine! All is good, Herr Hauptmann!"

The shouts went quickly in order, each man calling out his number, going forward to the front of the airliner. Hans shouted his number with all the rest, and was proud to hear Forst, Schäfer, Kranz and Vollmer all sounded as ready as they claimed.

"Ready! Wait for the signal!" Hauptmann Feiertag yelled, having to shout over the wind now as he swung the door open. Bracing, near the door, the officer turned and looked expectantly toward the open door of the cockpit.

A few moments later, an Air Force major appeared in the doorway, giving Feiertag the thumbs-up.

Turning to his men, Feiertag straightened up, raising his voice. Hans felt his pulse quicken, racing faster still. No more practice, no more training jumps. No more war games or field exercises. This was the real thing.

This was it.

"Men," Feiertag yelled, "Whatever the task, who can do it?"

" _Nobody but us_!" the men shouted, fiercely proud of their motto, which was shared with their socialist brothers-in-arms, the Soviet Airborne Troops.

Without any further ado, the captain pointed to the first man in line. "Go!"

The line moved quickly, each trooper barely pausing a moment at the door before jumping out. Hans reached it sooner than he'd expected. Without a moment's hesitation, he bent his knees slightly, tensed, and jumped out the door.

Falling rapidly away from the speeding airliner, Hans once again felt the peculiar, near-weightless sensation of freefall. Here he was, thousands of feet above the earth, plummeting towards it with nothing between but time. Hans had jumped from a perfectly-functioning aircraft intentionally, doing so with every intention of fighting his nation's enemies with everything he had once he hit the ground. It was a distinctly unnatural act, one far outside any instincts mankind had been given. And it was what Hans Kerner had been born to do.

 **XX**

To ensure that parachute infantry units could penetrate into enemy airspace and jump undetected, the Soviet Union had instructed the Red Army and its allies in Eastern Europe to create special airborne troops, elite even within their respective nations' parachute infantry, who would be able to jump from the highest possible heights and still land accurately within the target area. In the NATO countries, they were called "HALO infantry", for high-altitude, low opening. Instead of the usual 3-4 seconds until you deployed your chute after exiting the aircraft, you would freefall for better than half a minute, or perhaps more, depending on what altitude your jump had been at.

Like the others around him, Hans oriented himself quickly as he fell, straightening out and spreading his arms and legs as if he were skydiving. He could see the mostly-dark West German countryside unfolding below him for miles. When his mental count reached the appropriate number, Hans knew he had fallen far enough. He hit his cord, and abruptly reverted back to the feet-first position as his parachute blossomed out and jerked him upright in the sky.

The ground was coming up quickly now; instructions were to steer for any clear, open landing areas- a farmer's field, like the one not far off, was perfect. Forests and even individual trees were to be avoided at all costs, as getting stuck in one of those could be extremely difficult and time-consuming to get out of.

Leaning and steering with his chute as best he could, Hans felt a small rush of relief as he saw he was indeed going to make it down in the field. Looking around him, he could see well over two dozen other parachutes, some already coming down to earth ahead of him. Quickly returning to his own landing, Hans felt nervousness, fear- a great deal of it- returning in a hurry. Even if everything went right up to this moment, it would mean nothing if your landing went wrong. A dead or crippled paratrooper was no use to his unit.

The critical moment having arrived, Hans let his knees buckle as his boots first touched the ground. He tucked himself in and started to roll forward, letting the flexible joints in his knees safely absorb much of the impact. Just as he began to think he'd pulled it off perfectly, the steady crosswind that had been blowing across this open field picked up significantly. Unable to detach his parachute quickly enough, Hans was dragged forward by it. Cursing as he fought with the clasps, Hans got them to release at exactly the wrong time. The chute let go and flew away into the wind, and with nothing holding him up now, Hans fell. He slammed into the ground, helmet-first, and blacked out.

 **XX**

"Take it easy, Herr Unteroffizier," Kranz said, boyish face grinning under his Soviet-style paratrooper helmet. He held out a hand, gently but firmly stopping Hans from sitting all the way up.

"What happened?" Hans shook his head, trying to remember. His jump, the descent- it had all gone just as it should have.

"The landing, Hans," Kranz said, lowering his voice a little. "You got dragged forward by your chute and you got knocked out."

 _Knocked out by my own parachute on the second night my country goes to war_ , Hans thought, immediately ashamed of himself. _Outstanding_.

Looking around, Hans saw the rest of his team gathered around him; the last parachutes looked to be coming down, but they were miles off. Probably another unit, another objective.

Getting up, Hans took his MPiK's sling off from around his neck, pushing the fire selection lever down to the first setting past safety, full automatic. Quickly gaining his wits again, he looked to Kranz. "How long was I out?"

"About five minutes. Not very long."

Five _minutes_? Had the Wessis or the Amis been ready at all, had they been right here in the area, they could've killed everyone in Hans' fire team and taken him prisoner.

"Inexcusable," Hans said, admitting some of his shame. He looked at his soldiers, all of them young, highly trained, and deeply patriotic just as he was. "Thank you. I won't mess up like that again." And to begin living up to that promise, Hans stood, pointing towards the road up ahead, where off to the side of a bridge crossing some river, paratroopers were steadily gathering. It was only a two-lane road, and only a two-lane bridge, but it spanned a river big enough that even here, out in the countryside of West Germany, it could mean a lot to the right people.

It had to be why Company A had jumped where it did.

"Come on," Hans said, moving towards them. He nodded towards his guys, though, the ones who'd looked out for him, rescued him from lying out in that field when he'd botched his landing. "Nobody But Us, right?"

"Nobody," Kranz, Schäfer, Forst and Vollmer all echoed quietly. Just before they began to come into hearing range of the gathering paratroopers, who already were establishing perimeter guards and putting together their antitank and radio equipment, Kranz added with his usual impish grin, "Because nobody else wants to _go_!"

"Quiet, Kranz," Hans and the rest of the fire team hissed all at once, but they'd already reached the first guard, who didn't even bother raising his MPi-AKS-74N. It was Hauptfeldwebel Luther Brandt, father figure to many of the young paratroopers, their counselor and mentor- and that included the younger officers, too.

The Americans, with their odd and individualistic way of doing things, would have called Luther Brand a 'First Sergeant'. But in all the great armies of Europe- and the National People's Army definitely deserved inclusion there!- there was no such thing. There was only the sergeant major, from the company upwards.

The veteran NCO peered out at the fire team coming out of the dark. "Is Kranz telling his jokes again, Corporal Kerner?"

Hans blushed; one of these days, if he told the wrong joke at the wrong time and the wrong person heard it, Martin Kranz was going to get black-marked by the Stasi. It was a sad fact of life in the DDR that humor and pranks often went unappreciated, especially by the state. But you were relatively safe in the paratroopers, who though known for fierce patriotism, were also known for having little use for rear-echelon bureaucrats and policemen.

But Hans just answered, "Yes, Sergeant Major, he is."

"Good," Brandt answered simply- he often spoke as if each word cost him a Mark. "Kranz, just stow it if the Stasi shows up, will you?"

"Yes, Sergeant Major," the kid of the unit- heck, probably the kid of the regiment at all of 17- answered obediently. "As my Sergeant Major orders, I will do it."

Hans was inwardly horrified- Brandt was not a man to be trifled with- but he was apparently feeling indulgent today. He laughed, waving them forward, but suddenly called them back. "Kerner, post one of your men out here- I need to be with Senior Lieutenant Neumann when he gives the briefing."

"Forst, stay here," Hans decided. "Watch for anyone approaching from the direction we came."

"Understood," Forst said, nodding and shouldering his RPD, a light machine gun that mounted a heavy drum magazine. Wilhelm Forst, much the opposite of Kranz, was dedicated and proficient, but shy of speech, always calm and speaking in a steady, controlled tone no matter what was happening. Forst was honest and hardworking, and throughout his platoon and Company A he was the subject of immense respect and trust.

"Senior Lieutenant Neumann?" Hans asked, allowing himself to show some of his concern as they moved towards the gathered paratroopers, crouched or kneeling in front of one other, who was clearly an officer.

"The Hauptmann is still unaccounted for," Brandt said, adding nothing else. It was all obvious enough, really. If Captain Feiertag was missing, captured, or dead, that meant the next highest-ranking, next-most-experienced officer would take command of his company until he showed up. If he didn't, that meant Luther Neumann had just gained his first company-level command.

It wasn't good that Captain Feiertag was missing, but it went without saying that his company would carry on regardless. As Hans and three of his men took their places at the gathering, Hans working on fitting the two pieces of his RPG-7D together, it became apparent other men were missing as well. Crosswinds may have interfered, parachutes may have failed, unlikely as that was. Or the Luftstreitkräfte may have even made mistakes about when to signal for the jumps to begin- reading one digit wrong on a map could mean a difference of as much as a mile.

Hans sighed inwardly, scared out of his wits yet remarkably calm, in control of himself. He was miles behind the border, surrounded by enemy territory. Like the rest of these men, he had been called upon by the DDR's leadership to go where none of the NVA's other soldiers even could. To dare things that ordinary soldiers would and could not. Things always went wrong when a unit went into real action for the first time, had to apply all at once everything it had learned and practiced in training.

As Senior Lieutenant Neumann got a rapid count of heads, weapons and notable pieces of gear, it became apparent that more men than just the Captain were missing. They had as many as sixty or seventy men, a few more trickling in, but some were still unaccounted for. Heavy weapons, like RPD's or RPG-7's, had been lost. Two men had sprained ankles. And so on.

But as the new, though hopefully temporary, company commander decided to begin his briefing, Hans leaned his RPG-7D back against his shoulder and listened. So far, some things had gone right, some had gone wrong. They were behind enemy lines, encircled by a country filled with unfriendly soldiers and civilians. It wasn't so bad, though. For paratroopers in wartime, that was how it was supposed to be.

 **XX**

Senior Lieutenant Neumann kept his voice low, crouching in front of the men. Already there was gunfire in the distance, miles off. The high whine of jet engines, the thunder of artillery.

"This bridge may not look special," Neumann began, gesturing to the brick, asphalt-paved structure spanning the river behind him. "But it's a key crossing point for this river. To the east, the our own 7th Panzer Division and the Soviet 1st Guards Panzer Division are advancing across the BRD's border." He paused, looking around. "Our orders are simple. Hold this bridge until lead elements of those divisions can reach us. If we have to, we will detonate the charges the pioneer boys are rigging and drop this bridge into the river. The Americans and West Germans need this bridge as much as we do."

"The intelligence we have on this area indicates most of its forces have been moved north to counter the landings by the Soviet Navy and the Volksmarine. But they haven't moved everything. From what we know, the first ones who will try taking this bridge back from us will probably be Americans- they have the most forces in this area."

The senior lieutenant paused again, making eye contact with each and every one of his assembled men. Though barely any older than Hans Kerner was- than many of the enlisted men were- Luther Neumann was a good officer, one who cared a great deal about his men. He wanted to make sure they not only understood the mission, the situation in which it was happening, and never sent anyone where he wouldn't go himself.

"Additional intelligence states the Amis and Wessis likely have armored forces in the area. Until our own panzers break through to us, we'll have to make do with grenades and RPG's. Other than that, remember what's going on. We've been given a job that is going to make a lot of difference for the regular ground troops. Our panzers, and the Soviets', need this bridge to keep advancing fast, keep the Amis and the Wessis on the run. When they come to try to take this bridge back from us, let's send them packing. Let's show them what paratroopers of the DDR can do."

Hungry growls, nods and grins, low sounds of enthusiasm, came from every one of the gathered men. From the sound, even subdued as it had to be in case the enemy was nearby, these 60 men had enough fight in them to march on Paris all by themselves.

If all went well here, that might well be where the 40th jumped next.

* * *

 **A/N: The quote from the referenced conversation in which Hans Kerner yells at his brother Alex borrows heavily from when Commander Stone Hopper, U.S. Navy, is yelling at his brother- also named Alex- in the 2012 movie** _ **Battleship**_ **.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

* * *

As the briefing ended and began to break up, the individual platoon commanders and platoon sergeants started ordering their men into positions on the eastern side of the bridge, seeking out the best vantage points on the western bank.

Hans was about to seek out his squad leader, find out what the orders for his fire team were, but Lieutenant Neumann called out to him, motioning the young corporal over to the gathered senior sergeants and junior officers.

Feeling a little out of place as a mere corporal, Hans nonetheless put on his most confident, ready-for-orders face, and approached the circle.

"Yes, sir," he said. "What do you need?"

Turning to look at him, Neumann nodded. "Your file says you speak English, Kerner."

"Yes, sir."

"How well?"

"Better than good enough, sir," Hans said, speaking confidently- and in English. That earned him a few smiles, a few more approving nods from the assembled leaders. "I have been studying for five years, sir, since before I joined the Land Forces." He spoke steadily, without hesitation, but there was still a notable accent in his speech. Hans' English skills had earned him high marks from his instructors at the foreign languages course he attended while completing the numerous advanced, individual training courses- a long list of them- after completing paratrooper school.

It had also helped to convince his superiors to start overlooking that "Brother, Alex Kerner, under Stasi observation for disloyal, subversive activities" in Hans' file. Earning the military's trust had been a slow process for Hans, and he had doubts even now that he'd ever gain an officer's commission. That was all right, though- Hans had a feeling he'd like being an enlisted man better anyway.

"Well, Kerner," Neumann said with a wider smile, "We have several men in Company A who can speak English fluently, but you're as good as anyone I've got." He pointed across the bridge, where the road went stretching off into the dark. "I want you and one of your men- just one other- to cross the bridge and take up a position at least 100 meters away from the west bank."

"All right, sir," Hans said, waiting for the rest of it.

"I want you to lie flat behind some cover, watch for the first enemy forces that try coming down that road towards us. When they do, come out, flag them down, and tell them they can turn around right now, and if they do, none of them will be harmed. Tell them you're speaking for your commander, and he guarantees it." Neumann paused, shrugging. "Probably they'll say no, Corporal, but it's worth a try. But the real point is, while you're talking, I want the man you take with you to be watching. Counting vehicles, men, weapons, everything. You as well, as much as you can. That way if they decide they're going to try hitting us, we'll have a close look at what they've got first."

"Brilliant, sir," Hans grinned, before he could stop himself. He blushed a little, suddenly adding, "Uh, yes, yes, sir. I'll get it done."

But Neumann and the other officers and NCO's just grinned, and Neumann set a hand on Hans' strong, lean athlete's shoulder. "I know you will," the senior lieutenant said. "I'm relying on you, Kerner. Be my eyes."

"Yes, sir," Hans said, smiling and nodding. He knew better than to salute- orders were strictly against it once in enemy territory- so he just gave an appropriately respectful nod and headed off to find his team. On the way, Hans made up his mind to leave his RPG-7D behind with one of the guys who stayed with the rest of their squad. His assignment was in part a diplomatic one, and carrying a loaded antitank weapon with him would only encourage the Amis or the Wessis to gun him down on sight. A man with a slung rifle, however, was different.

He picked me, Hans thought, more than a little awed. The SED might not have trusted Hans Kerner all that much, but there was no doubt that Luther Neumann did.

 **XX**

Quickly explaining the situation to Forst, Schäfer, Kranz and Vollmer, Hans made a snap decision on who to take with him. "Forst, you're with me. Whoever comes down that road towards this bridge, we'll flag them down and buy some time." He smiled, adding, "Maybe the Amis and their Wessi lackies will just run away when they see East German paratroopers have taken this bridge. They'll be afraid of _real_ men."

The guys laughed, appreciatively but quietly, and even Forst cracked a smile. "Schäfer, Kranz, Vollmer, you three go to Senior Sergeant Fenstermacher, see where he wants you. If something happens to me, just find a corporal you like and follow him around." The guys chuckled again.

Hans handed his RPG-7D off to Kranz, who, oddly enough, was the next best anti-tank gunner in the fire team besides Hans himself and Forst. "Don't blow yourself up, Kranz," Hans said with a smile. "I don't want to live through this war, only to have your mother kill me." Kranz grinned.

"Okay," Hans said, hefting his side-folding AKM. "Come on, Forst. Let's go. Let's do it."

 **XX**

Moving at a low crouch, weapons ready to be snapped up to the shoulder at any moment, Hans and Forst moved out past the defensive positions of Company A, across the bridge, and on down the grassy terrain near the isolated country road. Incredible, really, that no fighting had happened yet in this area. The regular Land Forces, the Air Force- they must have really been giving the NATO forces hell. Them and the Soviets. To the east, heavy gunfire of all types was going off all the time, more or less confirming that observation. The 7th Panzer Division was on its way to Paris.

 _Paris_. Their campaign in Europe would take the 40th there, beyond a doubt, if things only went well here in West Germany. And so far, it looked like that was just what was happening. That made Hans smile, as tired and cold as he was- it wasn't very warm out at this hour in the morning, especially so early in the year. But thoughts of marching into the capital of France, the famously-beautiful City of Light, warmed him as he led Forst away from the bridge, heading west. In the presence of such men as he was surrounded by in the 40th, Hans felt ten feet tall, able to take on anything the Americans, the West Germans, and all the rest of NATO could throw at him.

He was scared, but he wasn't scared. Hans had trained day and night for this, and was as devoted to socialism, to the small but proud German Democratic Republic, as anyone. He would face whatever NATO sent his way, and face it with twice the courage any of those swine could muster.

Around a corner, past a grove of trees and shrubs, there was a small roadside house. From the look of the fields nearby, outlined in fences and with the occasional plow or tractor sitting among them, this was a farm. The house looked like it might have been there for some time- maybe it had even been a roadside inn, a long time ago. Either way, it offered a perfect view for over 200m to where the road stretched off to the northwest.

"In there," Hans said, pointing. "We'll set up in there." With a pair of field binoculars and the field radio Hans was carrying on his back, both spotting the approaching NATO forces and alerting his own comrades back at the river's eastern bank would be easy enough. If the Americans- or whoever- decided to play rough, maybe take the two East German paratroopers as prisoners or hostages, at least Senior Lieutenant Neumann would have the advance warning he needed.

Wasting no time, the two East German soldiers crouch-rushed up to the front door of the darkened, two-story house. Standing up, Hans knocked, rapping his knuckles on the door several times.

Nothing.

Unconvinced, Hans drew a black-handled blade from its sheath on his waist-mounted service belt. Snapping it onto the end of his Kalashnikov, Hans nodded to Forst as he shouldered the rifle, moving the fire selector lever to full automatic with an audible "clack".

"Get ready."

Forst nodded.

Raising his right leg, Hans slammed the bottom of his boot into the right side of the door, opposite to the hinges, as hard as he could. It gave with a satisfying crash, swinging open and banging off the wall. Hans rushed in, his machine gunner right behind him. They quickly swept the ground floor, then moved upstairs. Nothing.

There were no vehicles outside- not counting the tractors- so it was entirely possible that whoever lived here had noticed a war was starting and decided to bug out. It was a smart choice, since this place would be plenty close enough to any fighting that happened over that bridge. Had anyone still been here, Hans would've thrown them out himself. He didn't believe in using civilians as shields- or in keeping them around when fighting was likely going to begin in the area.

Satisfied that the house was clear, Hans and Forst settled into the first floor, concealing themselves between two kitchen windows that looked down the road, towards where the enemy would surely be coming from.

"I never imagined I'd join the paratroopers and be told to go play diplomat," Forst said into the silence of the darkened house, and he and Hans both laughed.

"Me neither," Hans said, chuckling. He continued surveying the terrain ahead, occasionally handing off the binoculars to Forst. "But we were told to. So there." They laughed again.

Maybe ten minutes later, Hans was glancing down at the maroon Bakelite forward grip on his Kalashnikov, wondering just why the National People's Army had not used the more common plywood, when Forst whacked his shoulder. The instant Hans looked up, he was on his feet, running at a low crouch for the front door, Forst following. Crouching there, ready to stand and flag the new arrivals down, Hans shouldered his rifle, motioning for Forst to do the same.

"Grab the handset," he ordered. "Radio the Senior Lieutenant. Enemy armored column and supporting vehicles approaching." He paused, looking down the road at the rumbling, clanking vehicles. "Number, at least eight heavy tanks and same number of light wheeled vehicles. Type- American. High Mobility Multi-Wheeled Vehicles and M1 Abrams tanks."

 **XX**

The instant Forst had relayed the message and replaced the headset, Hans stood up again, with the distinct feeling that he was about to do something very brave, or very stupid. Or maybe both. But it was also something he had been ordered to do, and so his own opinion of it didn't matter.

When the American vehicles- definitely American, as the tanks lacked West German crosses- reached some fifty meters away, Hans stepped out from the front doorway of the house, walking steadily out to stand at the side of the road. Careful to show he held no weapon in his hands, Hans began waving his right hand in a ninety-degree pattern, from parallel to his shoulder to just above his head. It was a fairly international signal to stop, and in war time you paid attention to uniformed soldiers trying to flag you down.

The tanks were startlingly quiet for machines of such size, with only an odd, high-pitched whine accompanying the usual noisy clank and squeak of their tracked suspensions. They began to slow, as did the HMMWVs, and the man riding in the open-hatch commander's position on the lead tank looked over at Hans intently. A few heavy machine guns were swung their way as the Eastern origin of the firearms Hans and Forst carried- shouldered or not- quickly registered. But for right now, nobody fired. The possibly diplomatic role of two soldiers, holding no weapons at the ready, standing in the open had evidently registered.

 _Good_ , Hans thought, with a mix of amusement and contempt. _Even these cowboys have some sense_.

 **XX**

Hans stopped his waving when the lead M1 Abrams tank loomed imposingly over him, having stopped only a handful of feet away. The commander looked at him and spoke, his American accent screaming out the moment he started using his countrymen's version of English.

"Name, rank, and service, soldier," the man- doubtless a sergeant of some kind- said. It was more a demand than a question. From the neutral tone of his voice, Hans realized the American might not be entirely sure who Hans was or what he was doing here. Had Company A's drop really gone that well- that not even the famed buckaroos had any idea there were Warsaw Pact forces here, holding this bridge?

"I am Corporal Hans Kerner of the Land Forces, National People's Army," Hans replied in clear but German-accented English. He was pronouncing his words more carefully than the American was, though. Such was the result of not taking your knowledge of a language for granted.

"First Lieutenant Aaron Gibbs, United States Marine Corps," the tank commander answered. "You're East German Army. That right?" Hans nodded. He was under strict orders not to reveal his unit's name or function, as there was exactly one airborne regiment in the entire Land Forces of the NVA. Knowing where even some elements of the 40th were deployed would do the NATO leadership far too much good.

At the same time, it wasn't going to be that hard for the enemy to figure out how a bunch of well-armed, elite infantry had arrived some fifty miles behind the eastern border of West Germany. Their helmets, exact copies of the Soviet Airborne Forces' model, looked nothing like those of the regular Land Forces. All that shouted "Fallschirmjäger" as loud as a floodlit sign would have. But even so, Hans knew his orders about it made sense- no need to help the enemy along.

Wasting no time, Hans motioned down the road behind him. "I must inform you that the bridge down this road has been closed to all NATO forces. You may surrender your weapons and wait for a security detail, or you may turn your vehicles around and drive back the way you have come. If you comply with either of these instructions, you will not be harmed." Hans paused, then added, "My unit's orders are to hold this bridge, and these orders cannot be negotiated with."

"Well, we got a problem there, Corporal," the First Lieutenant replied. "See, you got orders to hold that bridge down this road. I got orders to cross it. They can't be negotiated with either."

"Then my commanding officer suggests that thirty minutes be given, to allow you to- think it over," Hans said, struggling momentarily with the phrase. "Will you allow my comrade-" Hans pronounced it much closer to the German _Kamerad_ \- "and myself to return to the bridge during that time?"

"I will," First Lieutenant Gibbs responded. "I suggest you get going, too." He glanced at a watch he wore on his wrist. "Because your buddies got- twenty-nine minutes and thirty seconds, now."

Hans stared in surprise; he'd actually been planning on prolonging this just a little, maybe trying to talk the sergeant into giving up even if American Marines were famous for their inability to even consider that. He turned to Forst and spoke in English. "We will return to the bridge now."

Forst, who had studied English as well, nodded.

"Consider the offer my commander makes to you," Hans said as he turned back to the First Lieutenant. "You have the chance to spare your men much suffering if you surrender. Or turn away."

"Twenty- _eight_ minutes, Corporal," First Lieutenant Gibbs said calmly, and Hans' face blushed crimson. Turning away and walking beside Forst, Hans shook his head. " _Amerikaner_ ," he said irritably. Behind him, he could've sworn he heard Gibbs say to his tank's gunner, "Nice to know our reputation precedes us."

Hans swore violently in German the minute they were out of earshot.

"Did you get a count of their vehicles, any weapons you could see?" he asked Forst, determined not to let those damn cowboys distract him from doing his job.

"Yes," Forst answered. "It's ten and ten, HMMWVs mounting one fifty-caliber machine gun each, and M1 Abrams tanks mounting two fifty-caliber machine guns each, one roof-mounted, one coaxial."

"Very good," Hans said, a bit of his calm returning. "Come on, let's hurry up and get back. We have no time to waste."

 **XX**

The reaction from the Senior Lieutenant and the Sergeant Major was very matter-of-fact. They weren't surprised the Americans had refused both offers.

"For one thing, let's be realistic," Senior Lieutenant Neumann said. "They've got orders just like we do. Any soldier loyal to his nation is going to follow his orders."

"And the American Marines have a particular… _reputation_ … for not wanting to give up," Sergeant Major Brandt observed, his tone mostly respectful, but also somewhat amused. The common story in the Warsaw Pact armies was that US Marines didn't have the sense to know how.

"All right, Corporal- rejoin the rest of your fire team," Neumann said. "I don't give a shit if those Amis _are_ Marines. They're going up against East German parachute infantry, and we're the best in the world."

The young officer's voice rose as he said that, and it met with hearty grins and nods of approval. Dug in all along the eastern side of the bridge, the better part of 100 troopers had been gathered and now waited with weapons aimed downrange. Side-folding AKM rifles, RPD and RPK light machine guns, RPG-7D rocket-propelled grenade launchers, Dragunov sniper rifles, handheld grenades, a few land mines and claymores, and last of all, remote-detonated high explosives rigged all along the underside of the bridge. If it did turn out that the Warsaw Pact could not keep this bridge, then neither would anyone else.

Hans had been scared, his heart racing with fear, as he sat in the seat of that airliner before the jump. Only now, as he and Forst rejoined their teammates in a slit trench overlooking the southern side of the approach to the bridge, did Hans realize he was meeting with a much deeper kind of fear for the first time in his life.

Fear of getting shot- fear of the pain. Fear of dying. Fear of failing his mission and being captured. Fear of watching those things happen to the four young men he, just another young man, had been entrusted to lead. Hans was afraid. He knew that. Only by acknowledging it could he keep himself under control, maintain such an outward level of calm that he appeared not to be.

And by doing that, it helped not only his comrades, but Hans himself as well. He could not let his fear control his actions. It was unacceptable, and therefore, it wasn't going to happen.

"Sight your weapons for 200 meters," Hans said, repeating the order as it was passed down from the squad leaders. "We'll let the Amis have it as soon as they come that close."

"What if they get closer?" Kranz whispered, his face white with fear. "Say, close enough to give us a kiss?" Even now he was telling jokes. He'd been doing it as long as Hans had known him. It was how Kranz stayed under control, no matter what. It was how he mastered his fear.

"Then we'll give _them_ a kiss," Hans said, holding up his MPiK's barrel, with the black-handled bayonet attached to it. "With East German steel."

" _That's_ telling them, Kerner," a sergeant- one from another platoon- called approvingly from nearby, and more than a few other paratroopers actually snapped bayonets onto their own rifles. Hearing so many snaps and clacks, Hans smiled to himself, pleased to have done some small part in setting a good example for his comrades. _Look out_ , he thought sarcastically, _here comes the Gold Cross of the Blücher Order_!

Repeating some of the murmured words of encouragement from the sergeants, Hans said quietly to Forst, Schäfer, Kranz and Vollmer, "When they come in range, open up- not before. Keep your eyes downrange, fingers on your triggers, and we'll hold this bridge for the rest of the damn war if we need to."

Gradually, though, all non-essential talk died away as the deadline came closer. The men, of all ranks, had done what they could to encourage one another. The closeness they knew from months, in many cases years, of shared hardship in the DDR's one and only airborne unit, calmed more than a few unsteady hearts.

 _These men have been through the toughest training the NVA has to offer_ , Hans thought with a certain sense of awe. _The very toughest. And they volunteered for it. They volunteered because when they did go to war, they wanted to know that the men beside them would be the best. Not some conscript who's just going to get them killed_.

It was all fact. Hans knew it, and so did everyone around him. He was in the 40th Air Assault Regiment Willi Sänger, East Germany's finest soldiers, the best paratroopers in the world. He was in the company of brave men. Men of courage, of conviction- men who would rather die than quit. Who would sooner expose themselves deliberately to enemy fire than flee for the rear and desert their comrades.

But the United States Marine Corps! Of all the units of all the services in the NATO armies, it happened to be Marines who'd been sent their way first! It was exciting, and terrifying. Even with the heavy censorship of anything to do with the West in East Germany, Hans had managed to learn about the USMC even before he had joined the Land Forces.

World War I, the battles that had earned them the name of "Devil Dogs" from the Kaiser's soldiers, and had proven their dead-on accuracy with their M1903 Springfield rifles. World War II and the many fierce battles of the Pacific Campaign. Okinawa. Iwo Jima- the smuggled-in American magazine in which Hans as a boy had first seen that proud, proud picture of a team of Marines raising the American flag during the course of the battle.

Then there was Korea, and Vietnam- even just from the briefings they'd been given, Hans and all the rest of the 40th knew that US Marines considered themselves fearless warriors, and they had held up to that image in wars fought around the world.

 _Enough_ , Hans told himself, cutting his thoughts short. _You know the American Marines are strong_. _But your country has asked you to be the vanguard of its advance. On the shoulders of the 40_ _th_ _rests the hopes of the DDR_. _The hopes of a socialist mankind_.

"Get ready," Hans said, his voice taking on a sudden tension as the sound of clanking treads, of growling motors- and that curious, high-pitched whine from the M1s- became audible, growing closer. "When the order comes- let 'em have it."

Hans was proud to be carrying the rifle he was now. The East German paratrooper and vehicle crew model of the AKM, the MPi-AKS-74N. Made in his homeland, the 74 was a direct copy of the magnificent Kalashnikov rifle, tracing its ancestry back to the original, the AK-47. It weighed nine pounds fully loaded, had an effective range of some 400 meters, and there wasn't one thing that could go wrong with it that couldn't be fixed by removing the magazine, clearing the chamber, and inserting the magazine again. As powerful as it was loud, the Kalashnikov was a legend in its own time. It was the best combat rifle ever devised, as far as Hans was concerned- and his comrades agreed to a man. They loved their Kalashnikovs and would have traded them for no other.

 _The junkyards of the DDR will be littered with M-16s when we're done with this war_ , Hans thought with amusement. _Who would want them_?

Not much time left now- the Marines were coming.

But Hans was less afraid than he'd thought he would've been, going up against an enemy like this one. He was surprisingly calm, his voice steady as he said it. "Wait- hold it… hold it…"

Pride in his unit, pride in his country- sure. That was most of it. But there was also just a sense of unbreakable determination, borne of his identity as a counterpart to the US Marine- as one of his country's finest, fiercest warriors. The US Marines had a reputation. They were a little intimidating to go up against, because you knew they- unlike most Americans- were not just bluff and bluster. They could fight.

 _But you know something_? Hans thought to himself in those last few seconds. _If the American Marines want this bridge back… they're gonna have to come and take it_.

They were going to have fun with that. Hans knew _he_ would.

Then the clock ran out. Hans set his sights on one of the approaching HMMWVs, directing his fire team to do the same. He took in a breath, let it out.

"Open fire!" the shout ran up and down the line.

"Let 'em have it!" Hans barked. He squeezed the trigger.

* * *

 **A/N: I got the basic idea for this story from a dream I had once, believe it or not. A few things: The MPi-AKS-74N is the East German-made folding-stock model of the AK-74. The MPi-AK stands for Machine Pistol, Automatic Kalashnikov. The 74 refers to the rifle's first year of service, 1974.**

 **The 40** **th** **Air Assault Regiment was indeed the only airborne or air assault unit of the East German military, and was modeled after Soviet elite infantry, and trained as commandos. Hans Kerner is an OC, the non-canon twin brother of Alex Kerner from the film** _ **Good Bye, Lenin**_ **! His thoughts about how the men in his unit had been through the toughest training their army had to offer, etc., are closely based on Richard Winters' words in the first episode of the HBO miniseries** _ **Band of Brothers**_ **.**

 **Despite setting this story in the world of** _ **Red Storm Rising**_ **in 1986, I have based the opening events of the war- the naval assault on the West German coast, the date on which the assault occurs, and the subsequent Warsaw Pact ground and air assault across the inner German border- off another work, the 1998 movie** _ **World War III**_ **, featuring General Vladimir Soshkin as head-of-state of the Soviet Union.**


End file.
